


Blessed Rains

by ChummyGeekery



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/M, Family Fluff, Fluff fluff and more fluff, Friendship, Gen, Pregnancy, also feat. the Infamous Magic Nightie, chummydette friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-07 17:38:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20821211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChummyGeekery/pseuds/ChummyGeekery
Summary: Perhaps it was the change of scenery in South Africa. Or perhaps one might blame that Bri-Nylon nightie... At any rate, Shelagh and Chummy are both expecting- and due mere days apart! Follow the Turners and the Noakes as they anticipate their new arrivals, and become closer friends in the process. (Season 6 alt timeline: open to plot suggestions!)





	1. The Goat and the Nightie

Shelagh finished hanging up the laundry, then stepped inside to check on Dr. Myra. The mission doctor was recovering nicely, though she was a restless and obstinate patient. Shelagh found her making margin notes on Reverend Hereward’s report for the mission society. She let Shelagh take her temperature and ask the routine questions regarding her comfort, digestion, et cetera. After which, she reluctantly conceded to being brought a cup of Typhoo.

“Have a look if you like. I’ve just finished,” she told Shelagh as she set the file on the blackwood end table. When she spotted a packet of Choc-Kits that Shelagh brought along with the tea, she scoffed and waved it away. “Where ever did _that_ come from?”

“Port Elizabeth,” Shelagh answered primly.

“I don’t remember asking for that! Put it in the clinic pantry. It’ll come in handy for bribing our younger patients.”

Shelagh smiled to herself. From the start, Dr. Myra’s gruffness hadn’t intimidated her. But after the events of recent weeks, it was downright heartening to have her snapping again.

Apart from the Noakes, who had spent six months in Sierra Leone several years ago, the Nonnatuns had found the work in South Africa harder than they could have imagined. Complex cases weighed heavier on the heart when follow-up care was sporadic, and specialized care nonexistent. For awhile, it had looked as if even the aptly-named Hope Clinic wouldn’t survive. They’d faced one disaster after another. There was the water shortage, the dysentery cases, Dr. Myra’s liver abscess…

Only in the last week had things turned around. Dr. Myra responded to treatment at Port Elizabeth Hospital; she was even discharged to convalesce at home. Mr. Starke changed his mind about the pipeline. After that, Fred Buckle, Peter Noakes, and the local workers had the clinic’s cistern full of clean water in no time. The Hope Clinic staff and their English visitors had set to catching up on laundry and spring-cleaning the clinic. Their dysentery patients improved, and no new cases were diagnosed.

Shelagh settled on the back porch with her own tea and biscuits, and Tom’s report. Officially she was keeping an ear on Dr. Myra, and an eye on the laundry line as the cool gray skies threatened rain. Unofficially, she was taking a well-earned break. Reading Tom’s optimistic final report felt like running a victory lap of sorts. As did leafing through the attached photographs.

Roza Mphaphane, the clinic’s new administrative secretary, stood proudly by her desk and typewriter. Little Mattias Guma beamed before the camera, supported by his brother Abel- and by Timothy’s old leg braces. The young Muzungulu family posed in front of the cistern that Innocent had helped connect to the fresh spring; Fezeka held her newborn daughter that Phyllis and Chummy had delivered on the veldt.

Shelagh smiled at a snapshot of Fred Buckle and Peter Noakes, clowning around with the local children in front of the clinic lorry. Both men had initially been unsure of their place on this mission trip. But the National Service had given them mechanical, logistical, and engineering know-how that was essential to the pipeline project. Meanwhile fatherhood had prepared them for the peanut gallery.

And then there was Nurse Franklin, posing with a young mother and child she’d seen through a most extraordinary cesarean section. She’d gone from pouting about the climate when they first arrived, to volunteering for an extended stay at Hope Clinic until Dr. Myra recovered. What a difference four weeks could make!

Several snapshots were notably absent from Tom’s professional report. They were his and Barbara’s engagement pictures. Shelagh and the other women had cooed and passed the pictures around yesterday evening. The pair posed on a rough wooden bench before a laundry line, their merry blue eyes and sunburned cheeks endearingly oversaturated by Phyllis’s color camera.

The younger couple’s bliss may have rubbed off on Shelagh. Or perhaps it was the anticipatory joy of going home. It could even be the cloud cover that had rolled in yesterday, giving them a reprieve from the sun and a taste of autumn in the Eastern Cape…

At any rate, last night Shelagh had suddenly found the bedroom’s candlelight romantic, instead of a reminder of the lack of electricity. With the water rationing behind them, she’d finally had a chance to rinse her Bri-Nylon nightie. She had once again reveled in its flirty frills and flowy, translucent material.

She closed her eyes and remembered Patrick last night. He had been relaxed, and rightfully proud of all they had accomplished. His crooked smile had been a bit roguish, and his gaze had lingered warmly on her. He was quite tan. His arms and shoulders were firm from all the lifting of supplies in and out of the lorry. His hair was sun-lightened and overdue for a trim; his chin was dark with stubble. His light cotton shirt had the top button left undone.

Well at least, it had _started_ with just the top button...

She was jolted back to the present by bleating.

The goats had broken free of their enclosure by the rondavels. Their russet-colored ringleader was set on pulling a nightdress off the line.

“No!” she breathed in quiet horror. “No, no…”

The goat ignored her. Shelagh was too nervous to approach, so she willed herself to speak up:

“B-bad goat. No! That’s… that’s not very nice…”

The goat yanked the nightdress free and trotted off, one end in its mouth and the other trailing in the dirt. The nightie caught on an exposed tree root and began to tear. Even from a distance, Shelagh could see it wasn’t hers. The goat’s prize was pink; her nightie was blue and white. But she almost wished it _was_ hers. Then she’d feel less guilty about it being ruined by her cowardice.

“Bad goat! _Bad_ goat!” she managed to yell. The goat turned and stared at her. For one terrifying moment, Shelagh thought it might charge. Then Dr. Myra shuffled outside, wielding a broom like a cricket bat.

“Persephone! _Get!_” She shook the broom. Before she reached the end of the stoop, Persephone dropped the nightie and fled. Shelagh ran out to retrieve it. She wouldn’t have Dr. Myra overexerting herself, on top of everything else.

The nightie was light cotton, with a girlish yet old-fashioned pattern of little embroidered flowers. It was a straight, unfitted shift with plain hems. Shelagh thought it might belong to Nurse Crane, or perhaps Barbara.

But when she held up the torn bottom hem for a closer look, nearly a foot of material at the shoulders and bust rested on the concrete floor.

“It’s Nurse Noakes’, I take it,” Dr. Myra said wryly. 

\-----

Peter took a late evening walk around the clinic compound. The single nurses were settled in their rondavel; he could see the candlelight in the window, and hear Trixie’s dansette over the drizzling rain. The goats and chickens were safe behind their padlocks. There were no unattended tilley lamps in sight. Fred had remembered to park the lorry well off the road. All was in order. Everyone was safe for the night and- almost as crucially- the Afrikaner bobbies would have no excuse to harass them.

He left his muddy boots and damp jacket in the mission quarters’ sitting room, then retired to his and Camilla’s room. When he came in, she was smoothing on a shapeless blouse with silly blue frills. Apart from a pair of cotton pettipants, she wore nothing else.

“Old Persephone had my nightie for afternoon tea, I’m afraid. Shelagh was kind enough to offer me this.” She gestured to her top, raising her eyebrows playfully. “Imagine: a garment that Shelagh Turner and I can both wear!”

_Shelagh Turner must swim in it, then,_ Peter thought. He said: “That was nice of her.”

“It was, rather. I think she felt obligated; one got the distinct impression that her caprophobia contributed to my nightie’s demise. I would have politely declined, made do with one of your button-ups. Only she pointed out that she and Dr. Turner will be snug as bugs back in London tomorrow night, while the rest of us have a nine-day ocean voyage in store. My need is greater than hers, so to speak,” she grinned.

Peter didn’t know what to make of the blouse- or nightdress, whatever it was. It was very different from Camilla’s usual style. Still, she looked so pleased as she twirled in front of the grimy, black-spotted mirror. She wove the frills between her long, lean fingers; she raised her arms and swayed the flowing sleeves. Peter couldn’t tell what material it was. Perhaps it was a trick of the candlelight, but it looked both stretchy and silky.

And a bit see-through, he noticed.

“Is it comfy?” he asked.

“It’s a fascinating texture. It’s called ‘Bri-Nylon.’ Come and feel.”

He was only too happy to obey. The mission trip had ended on several high notes, and their impending journey home gave things the spirit of a holiday. Weeks of digging trenches and transporting water barrels whipped Peter into the best shape Camilla had ever seen him in. Meanwhile she’d tanned the most of anyone in their group; in Peter’s eyes, she was positively radiant.

He came up behind her and slipped a hand around her waist. She shivered a bit, and perhaps not because of the cool rainy night. She turned around in his arms- the material _was_ quite silky, he noticed. She gently draped her hands over his shoulders, tickling him with those flowy sleeves. They began to slowly sway back and forth together, as if they were dancing.

“Shame we can’t hear Trixie’s dansette from here,” he joked.

She looked down at him, her eyes half-closed but not remotely sleepy, her lips softly open. He knew what that look meant.

“I don’t think we’ll need music tonight,” she said softly.

As she traced a finger down the nape of his neck, Peter had to agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** This story idea came directly from a couple of silly Tumblr threads, and I want to keep that spirit of fun collaboration throughout the project. All readers please feel free to give me plot or fluff ideas whenever you want, however you want. Leave a review, send me a PM, or grab me on Tumblr- whatever works! I can’t guarantee I will use your idea, but I will certainly squee about it with you. If I do use it, (with your permission,) then I will credit you via closing A/N on the relevant chapter.
> 
> Speaking of!
> 
> Thank you cooldoyouhaveaflag for gosh, so many things. The original concept, the “friendly pressure” to fic it, the beta-ing, even the title! I could not have done it without you, and we are gonna have… wait for it… SUCH FUN.
> 
> Thank you weshallc for the mental image of Chummy in the Bri-Nylon nightie- and twirling! (Eeee!) On a related note, thank you bbcshipper for chiming in on the nightie’s proportions, and for the preview read!
> 
> Thank you callthemoonbeam for reminding me to make rain, especially of the African variety, a motif!
> 
> And lastly, thanks to everyone who “nudged” me to heed cooldoyouhaveaflag’s fic-pressure and/or offered general support. I have never had a project with so much excitement before I even post it; it’s terribly exciting! callthemoonbeam, roguesnitch, tangledupinmist, broadwayfreak5357, thatginchygal, nurseturner, wildlygroovybeliever, and joyfullesbian, thank you!


	2. A Mysterious Manner

Sister Julienne and Sister Winifred rose for their final compline with their South African sisters. The storm clouds had burst overnight, giving way to a proper downpour. The humidity was worse than ever, but the air was sharp with the promise of cleansing. Raindrops on the warped windows turned to amber beads in the candlelight. Their plainsong was drowned beneath the shudder of rainfall on the mission’s tin roof.

Shelagh came in mid-song, lending her sweet, strong voice to their vain contest with the rain. She waved in Nurse Noakes, who had stopped shyly in the chapel doorway. After the closing prayers, Sister Gertrude suggested they sing one more song- “just for fun.” She assured them the lyrics were “very simple,” and translated from Xhosa for them:

_“Opuzayo kulawamanzi_  
Opuzayo kulawamanzi  
Opuzayo kulawamanzi  
Akomi naphakade qha. 

_(“Whoever drinks of this water_  
Whoever drinks of this water  
Whoever drinks of this water  
Shall never be thirsty again.”) 

Sister Julienne recognized the tune from Sunday service in the village’s crowded, one-room church. Now that she knew the words’ meaning, it seemed a fitting praise for recent events. There was the new water pipeline of course. And now these blessed rains, bringing an end to a hot, dry summer.

Departure was a splashing, sopping affair. Dr. Myra advised them not to wait for a break in the rain; they’d end up keeping their drivers for days. They sprinted for their vehicles, but not before crowding in the warm, dry sitting room for goodbyes. Farewells passed not just between guests and hosts, but also between the Turners and the rest of their party. At a junction thirty miles off, the Turners’ car would head west for Cape Town International Airport, while the bus would go east to Port Elizabeth. The parting would be silent and unceremonious. In all this rain, one might not even notice the other pair of headlights slipping away.

Sister Julienne was the last to say goodbye to Shelagh. They embraced a beat longer than most. When they pulled back, Shelagh was the first to gain composure.

“God be with you on your journey, Sister.”

“And on yours as well,” Sister Julienne said past a lump in her throat.

The bus-bound Nonnatans ran out in pairs and trios, to avoid crowding at the door. The nuns and Nurse Crane were the first to make a break for it. They surprised themselves by whooping and shrieking in the rain like little children. As they climbed into the bus, stiff-legged beneath their drenched dresses, Sister Winifred turned and smiled brightly at Sister Julienne.

“It’s nice how you and Mrs. Turner are still so close.” She lowered her voice. “Despite how she left the Order.” 

Nurse Crane was wry. “Compared to the other ways one could leave a religious order- death and the so-called ‘dark night of the soul’ come to mind- I would think marriage a pleasant alternative!”

Sister Winifred bit her lip. Sister Julienne knew what she wished to say: because she’d said it before, on occasions when the nuns’ recreation hour took a gossipy turn.

_She forsook her vows._ Sister Winifred spoke slowly to control her irritation.

_She renounced her vows,_ Sister Julienne had primly corrected. _As is her right._

_After ten years with the Order? After taking her final, life vows?_

_Mrs. Turner served God and our community faithfully in her ten years with us. She has continued to do so ever since. We do not pretend to understand God’s reasons or timing in calling her to another life. He moves in a mysterious manner, after all._

Sister Julienne knew there were some who saw the way Shelagh left them as akin to divorce. But she saw it more like a young woman setting out from her parents’ home. Privately, she had always considered Shelagh to be more like a daughter than a sister: perhaps because she was the first novice that Sister Julienne instructed through all of her vows.

Like any mother, Sister Julienne had been shocked by the seeming suddenness of it all, wary that passion might prove a fickle basis for such life-changing decisions. But then she learned of the months of internal struggle and prayer- and the letters. She saw how well-suited Shelagh and Dr. Turner were for each other. How they upheld one another during Timothy’s illness with polio, the sad news of Shelagh’s infertility, and the process of adopting dear little Angela. She saw what a cozy, happy family they made.

Her wariness gave way to trust and affection. She prayed every day for Shelagh and Dr. Turner’s continued happiness. Not for hedonistic pleasures, or for particular outcomes that they might desire. But that they would continue to walk together through whatever storms life brought them, steady and contented, helpmeets and friends as well as spouses.

For underneath Sister Julienne’s wooden cross, her habit, and her coarse woven girdle, beat the heart of a romantic.

Outside they heard a large splash, then yelling and laughter. Nurse Noakes’ voice rose above the rest:

“No harm done! I had a jolly soft landing, what! Oh goodness, Barbara! No! Don’t bother trying to find them in this soup! I’ve got a spare pair in my case…”

She staggered onto the bus, dripping mud head to toe, blinking myopically without her spectacles. Her sergeant husband followed her aboard and guided her into a seat. He popped open her case and pulled out a locally-made, plaid woolen blanket she’d bought as a souvenir.

“You remember that elephant in Sierra Leone?” he teased as he wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. She grinned up at him.

Young Nurse Gilbert was next aboard. Sister Julienne saw her smile at the Noakes’ tender moment. _Between the Turners and the Noakes,_ the Sister thought, _she and Mr. Hereward are blessed with such wonderful role models._

\-----

In smooth sailing, all were well except for Nurse Gilbert. But when they encountered a storm off the West African coast, all were sick except for Nurse Noakes. She stumbled from one colleague’s cabin to the next with barley sugars, cold compresses, and a sloshing thermos of ginger tea.

“I’ve always had an iron stomach,” she boasted cheerfully. With the other women, she added: “Even en route to Freetown in ’58, whilst coping with a tiny stowaway. Not a jot of nausea: although I was snoozy as Rip Van Winkle!”

It was pouring rain once again when they docked in London. And once again, a couple in their ranks said their goodbyes before venturing out. The Noakes had their own taxi to catch. They were going straight home to their three-year-old son Freddie, who was awaiting their return with Sergeant Noakes’ parents.

Sister Julienne was looking forward to settling back into the relative tranquility and routine of home. To cardigans and crocuses. To the familiar meditations of Lent. To the crisp orderliness of the on-call board and the ringing telephone. (Even Nurse Crane’s Rolodex would be a welcome sight!) To Mrs. B.’s hearty homemade luncheons. To recreation hour knitting with her Sisters: or on more indulgent occasions, joining the lay-nurses in front of the television.

Instead they came home to Sister Ursula. And a telephone call from the Mother House.

At first it wasn’t so bad. Perhaps God was testing Sister Julienne’s obedience, tempering her pride. Was there really anything wrong with switching up the meal routine, seeing clinic patients in ticketed order, or going back to life without television? Perhaps Sister Ursula’s push for efficiency and austerity was what they needed: to move forward into the modern era, while circling back to their Order’s vows of poverty and of service.

Sister Julienne began to have doubts when she saw how the new Superior belittled Sister Monica Joan. Then she took umbrage at Sister Julienne’s decision to deliver Trudy Watts’ daughter in the clinical room. And then worst of all: she had Sister Mary Cynthia whisked away so suddenly after her crisis. It was in the middle of lauds, with no warning; her Sisters didn’t even have the chance to say goodbye.

Perhaps some things could be commodified, streamlined, economized. But Sister Julienne knew: compassion for the suffering was not one of those things. At Nonnatus House, they would always be lavish in their care for the ‘least of these.’ She would not interfere if the staff went above and beyond for a patient. She would keep an eye out for times when Sister Monica Joan’s frustrations needed defusing.

And as for Sister Mary Cynthia?

She would have that rushed departure noted in Sister Mary Cynthia’s record. And she would pray. After all, she had every reason to believe that prayer could work wonderful things. For a new light of joy had broken through the present clouds of worry.

It was two weeks after their ship docked in London. Sister Julienne and Shelagh were alone at the surgery one evening, discussing Sister Mary Cynthia’s breakdown. Sister Julienne offered Shelagh a cup of tea: well-sugared for strength, and with a dollop of milk, just as she’d always liked.

But when she went to take a sip, Shelagh pulled a face and put a hand to her mouth.

“I’m sorry. It’s just… The smell of the milk… Breakfasts have been impossible.”

“Breakfasts?” Sister Julienne repeated, incredulous.

Shelagh kept hesitating, smiling and shaking her head at herself. “I can’t believe it myself, Sister.” Her voice quavered as she added: “Even Patrick doesn’t know. But- I’m expecting a baby! …And I’m so afraid…”

“Oh!” Sister Julienne cried.

She pulled Shelagh close.

“And I’m not,” she reassured her. “Because I never stopped praying.”

It was far too early to tell anyone else. Sister Julienne knew she would have to conceal her glee when she arrived back at the convent. So she let herself smile broadly as she biked down the dark and drippy Dock Road. Happy tears pricked her eyes; if anyone noticed, she would blame the stinging winter winds.

She remembered something Sister Mary Cynthia had said the night of her breakdown. _You aren’t in charge! Even Sister Ursula isn’t really in charge._ Words spoken in such anguish, yet they had a heartening double meaning. The doctors who had pronounced Shelagh infertile were not in charge, either. Only their Lord was in charge, and His ways were mysterious to them all.

Back at the convent, Sister Julienne found a figure napping on the sitting room settee. Her face was hidden beneath a knitted patchwork blanket, but the long frame and size eleven feet were unmistakable.

“Nurse Noakes?” she called gently.

“Sorry!” Nurse Noakes cried as she startled awake. “Spot of sherry… tooth mug…”

“Are you alright?”

Nurse Noakes blinked her way back to the present with a chipper smile. She fumbled for her glasses on the coffee table. “Never better. Just got back from my rounds. Thought I’d sneak a little kip while I wait for the old autoclave…”

She winced and pinched the spot between her eyebrows.

“Are you sure you’re not unwell?” Sister Julienne asked.

“Absolutely.” She gave a long yawn. “Iron stomach, remember?”

_And as snoozy as Rip Van Winkle,_ Sister Julienne thought reflexively.

But no. Her penchant for romance, primed by Shelagh’s joyous news, was getting the better of her. A hardworking midwife, wife and mother was entitled to an occasional afternoon doze. It didn’t mean that Nurse Noakes was…

Besides. God worked in a mysterious manner: but both their married nurses falling pregnant at the same time? That would be downright cheeky of Him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to my amazing beta, cooldoyouhaveaflag. Thank you, tangledupinmist for suggesting fatigue as a clever alternative to nausea for the ‘giveaway’ early symptom. (And for the associated Nonnatus-nap awks!) And thank you, callthemoonbeam, for suggesting I try working in some Toto lyrics. ;-)
> 
> The hymn at the start of this chapter is “Opuzayo,” by Kgotso Makgalema. I found it on a webpage titled “African Gospel Lyrics.” For the purposes of this chapter, I’m assuming either a folk/traditional version existed before Makgalema’s career, or that we can all just live with the anachronism.


	3. To Share Your Joy

Chummy hadn’t meant to tell Peter quite so soon.

He telephoned the house on her day off. He asked if she could come down to the station with some of Freddie’s old baby clothes and nappies, and perhaps a few of his toys that would be suitable for a five-year-old.

“We have some unexpected guests,” he explained.

“Oh how perfectly delightful! Shall I bring Freddie along?”

“I’d rather you didn’t, if Mrs. Torpy’s free.” He sighed heavily. “I’m not sure how this is going to play out.”

When Chummy arrived at the station, she found a little boy with glasses and an eye patch sitting on the station counter, doodling in a steno book. Phyllis stood nearby, gently bouncing a fussing newborn in her arms.

“Good afternoon, Nurse Noakes! I see you’ve come well-supplied.” Phyllis’s tone warned that they were all to keep cheerful in front of the children. “You can leave the race cars with young Master Mickey. Then go through and see if Sergeant Noakes has finished rinsing out that hold-all.”

Peter was at the station’s kitchenette sink. A pile of wet baby clothes and nappies sat on the counter beside him. He was towel-drying a hold-all. His shoulders were squared, and she could see him working his jaw. She put a hand at his elbow.

“Peter?”

“Hello love.” He managed the briefest of smiles. But he wouldn’t look her in the eye. “It was good of you to come. Did you bring Freddie?”

“No.”

“Good. It’s an abandonment case, but Nurse Crane thinks she knows where the mother might have gone. We’re going to have a look before ringing the Children’s Officer.”

“I’ll come with you,” she blurted. “If you don’t mind, that is. Keep the little ones happy and distracted, all of that.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he frowned.

“No, but I want to. Peter. Are you alright?” she asked quietly. She could tell this case was affecting him more than most, but she didn’t know why.

“I’m fine. Only…” He sighed heavily again. “You remember the woman I told you about last week? The one whose husband, fresh out of prison, took their five-year-old son down the gym?”

“Yes. …Are these her children?”

“She’s filing for divorce now. Alleging abuse,” Peter said flatly. He toweled off the hold-all with added vigor. “I keep turning it over in my mind. When she came in the first time, did we do everything we could? To keep her and the kids safe?”

“From what you’ve told me, I’m quite certain that you did,” she said gently. “But there’s still more to do. So chin up, Sergeant. Before I find you in violation of the Optimism Act, 1959.”

He chuckled at their old inside joke. He could look her in the eye now, which was reassuring. But she could still see a cloud of worry over those sky-blue eyes she so loved.

Just a few words from her could bring him sunny skies again.

It was still quite early. Chummy had taken a pregnancy test at Dr. Turner’s office just a few days ago, and she was still waiting for the results. But she just _knew_ that she was expecting. She was one of those lucky women whose monthlies (or sudden lack thereof) were quite the reliable witness. Not to mention, these last few weeks she’d suddenly had acne reminiscent of her Roedean days. Underwire brassieres had become torture. Her pillow seemed to call to her every hour of the day.

And she simply felt… different. One could hardly explain it, except to other mothers.

Yet she knew that there was still a chance this would all end in private sadness. Another ‘might-have-been,’ another tiny guardian angel watching over their family. She’d suffered such a loss last autumn. That was why she’d planned on waiting awhile before telling Peter this time. Perhaps until Easter morning.

But right now, she’d do anything to make him smile…

“You’re a good man, Peter Noakes,” she declared. “A good policeman, husband, and father. The latter is especially important, since, well…”

She looked down and smoothed her hands over her waist.

“Your duties in that department may be doubling soon,” she smiled.

Peter was puzzled. “Do you mean-?”

“Yes,” she said, giggling even as tears sprang up in her eyes. “Yes, Lord willing. By early November, give or take a few weeks.”

“Oh!” he chuckled lightly. He beamed up at her in awe. “Camilla...!”

He reached up, wiping her tears away with his thumb. He cupped her face in his hand. She leaned into his touch, then brushed past it, closing her eyes as she rested her chin on his shoulder. She could have sworn she heard music.

_Angel, angel. Oh-oh-oh-ohhh…_

Phyllis cleared her throat loudly in the kitchenette doorway. The Noakes straightened and stepped apart.

“Shall we get a move on, then?” she asked pointedly.

Peter went red as he scrambled to pack the hold-all. Chummy stifled another giggle. Where others would preach, become flustered, or file away the incident for future gossip, Phyllis Crane’s only concern was keeping them on task. Bless her and her Northern pragmatism.

Chummy gestured towards the baby in Phyllis’s arms. “May I?”

“Of course.”

One had to wonder just how much the older nurse had overheard. Especially when Phyllis winked as she handed off the baby.

“It’s a little girl,” she whispered.

Peter stopped still at the sight of his wife nestling a little bundle in her arms. Judging by the look on his face, he could hardly wait for November.

\-----

Shelagh had it all planned out.

At first she’d thought to wait another month or two, until the odds were more in her favor. But Sister Julienne had urged her to tell Patrick. _“There’s no doubt at all now. You can ask him to share your joy.”_ Though they both knew that Shelagh would be sharing more than just joy with her husband. There was also great anxiety- and potential sadness.

But Shelagh had prayed and thought it over. She even dared to let herself consider that awful what-if. She realized that, if it came to that, she wouldn’t be able to grieve alone. She would have to share her sadness with Patrick anyway. So how could she deny him the joy beforehand, however brief?

Besides, with a husband for a doctor, it probably wasn’t feasible to keep mum into the second trimester. He could end up figuring it out before she told him. Worse yet: _Timothy_ might figure it out. In a moment of adolescent impertinence, he might even _blurt_ it out…

How would she feel if either of her boys was the first to breach the subject? She would be mortified, she realized- and disappointed, too. She’d feel as if she’d been beaten to the punch.

Daydreams were creeping back into her mind. They were girlhood dreams, packed away with her skirt suits and blouses when she first donned a postulant’s dress. They were a newlywed’s dreams, tearfully surrendered along with that little embroidered nightdress. They were dreams she had thought were finally supplanted by memories of the day they met Angela.

While nothing would ever compare to holding her daughter for the first time, a new and different moment of joy was looming on the horizon. Shelagh was starting to hope- and that meant she was starting to plan.

She found herself thinking back on the way Patrick had proposed to her. It had been a bit unorthodox, yet perfect for them. She decided that she wanted this moment to echo that one.

She hadn’t even finished her drawing when Angela pointed and announced, “Baby!”

It was plain enough for even a two-year-old to see. Shelagh had always had a talent for sketching. As a child she’d passed many lonely hours tracing birds and flowers from her father’s wildlife encyclopedias, until she graduated to drawing them freehand. As a midwife she’d always drawn the diagrams for her own classes, and sometimes for her colleagues’ too. She must have done hundreds hasty line drawings of babies in the fetal position, on chalkboards and in study guides. It was practically a reflex by now.

But this picture- this baby- was different. She took her time with this one. She lingered over the delicate fists, the tiny ear, the gentle curve of the closed eyes. She slowly, lovingly, added shading and color. She even put a splash of gold in Baby’s hair.

She debated on the pink ribbon. Was it tempting fate, to act on her hopes not just for a healthy child, but for a particular gender? In the end, she decided that the God she loved and served would never be so capricious. He knew as well as anyone that she’d love a little boy just as much as a girl.

Perhaps, at a time like this, it was best to dream unreservedly. She thought back on the evening she told Sister Julienne about the pregnancy. _“I’m not (afraid.) Because I never stopped praying.”_ She meditated on her Sister’s words, trying to borrow her strength.

Appointments stayed smoothly on-schedule that day. The surgery was deserted by teatime. She found Patrick by the reception room cabinet, rifling for index cards to help him complete the day’s notes.

“Patrick?”

Just approaching him, with the beribboned drawing in hand, set her heart to thudding. Simultaneous elation and disbelief made her feel as if she were walking on air, her head tethered to her body like a helium balloon.

“You gave me a note once, from you and someone else.”

She held out her note. She watched his face carefully. Years ago, he’d told her to watch his face during this moment.

“Now I’m giving you this.” She swallowed hard. “From me and… someone else.”

He opened it, and gasped. _“Please will you be my Dad?”_ he read softly.

His eyes scanned hers, searching for an explanation. She nodded. Her head began to roar with impending tears. She thought it sounded just like the swell of strings in the films, at all the big romantic moments.

His confusion gave way to a broad grin. It must have matched her own; she was smiling so big it was actually painful. They reached out for one another. He gave her a quarter-twirl, the gentlest little sweep. Just like in the films.

She cupped her hands over the back of his jaw, her fingers brushing his neck. It was one of her favorite places to touch him. He had his hands at her waist, which was just as perfect. It made her feel small, safe, protected.

For this moment at least, there was no fear at all. There was only their joy.

\-----

The next morning, Shelagh had finished yet another box of Rennie’s and was searching for more, (surely her purse stash _and_ her desk stash weren’t both depleted?) when Chummy Noakes came out of the exam room. For a moment she just stood there, staring into the middle distance, breathing in quivering gasps. Then she squared her shoulders and turned to Shelagh with a bright smile.

“What-ho, Shelagh. Could I trouble you to book me a follow-up appointment? In… in about a month, one should hope?”

“Absolutely,” Shelagh smiled. She flipped through Patrick’s appointment diary. Chummy fidgeted with her cross necklace while she waited, pink-faced and aquiver.

Shelagh made a point not to snoop when friends and colleagues had appointments with her husband. She also made a point not to read the pregnancy test results they received back weekly from the lab. When she was pronounced infertile, she’d found herself unable to even open the envelopes, thick with promises for other women. She’d reneged two weeks ago, when her own results came back. But as a general rule, she wasn’t quite ready to break the old habit.

Still, it did cause one to wonder: a happily-married, relatively young woman, all a-flutter and requesting another appointment _in about a month?_

“Easter Monday is precisely a month from today,” Shelagh announced. “I’m afraid we’re quite busy that week, and the week before, due to lost time from the holiday.”

“I’ll take whatever you’ve got,” Chummy said hastily. She pulled a diary from her handbag. The wire binding caught on some adjacent papers and flung them across Shelagh’s desk. She recognized the pamphlet titles immediately: _What to Expect in Pregnancy. Preparing for Baby. Motherhood._

“Oh!” Shelagh laughed. “Chummy, how wonderful!”

“Yes. Well. One hopes so,” she sighed, her voice catching.

Shelagh could always remember Chummy Noakes’ age, because it was just a few months different from her own. Both women would turn thirty-six later this year. Both ‘elderly’, in obstetric terms. They were also both high-risk: Shelagh because of her history of tuberculosis, and Chummy because of her life-threatening first delivery. Chummy had had an emergency cesarean, which put her at increased risk of uterine rupture during subsequent labors. There was a chance that this second baby would arrive by emergency cesarean, too.

_The poor dear. Of course she’s afraid,_ Shelagh realized. _I would be, too._

_I **am,** too._

“Do you have somewhere else to be?” Shelagh asked.

“Not particularly, no.”

Patrick’s next patient chose that precise moment to arrive: a coughing, wailing toddler, dragged in by his harried mother. Before going to greet them with a box of Kleenex, Shelagh stopped and squeezed Chummy’s upper arm.

“Tea?” she half-whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to the amazing cooldoyouhaveaflag for beta reading! Seriously you guys: she has these ideas for little tweaks that make the story infinitely better in, like, 20 words or less. And she squees about cuteness like Peter Noakes reaching UP to dry his wife’s tears. We have a blast.
> 
> Chummy’s body language in the final scene leans on descriptions of her in Jennifer Worth’s _Shadows of the Workhouse,_ page 149. *tips hat to book!canon*


	4. Only Fair

By the time Shelagh managed to sneak away to the surgery kitchenette, Chummy had put the kettle on and set the milk and sugar out on the table. She was searching the cabinets for snacks and crockery. Her hands were shaking, and she heaved a loud sniff.

“Allow me,” Shelagh offered. She ushered Chummy over to an aluminium card table where she and Patrick took lunch- on the rare occasions they could escape their desks, anyway. She dug out a packet of Rich Tea for Chummy to nibble on while she waited.

“This is so very kind of you,” Chummy said, her voice husky with tears. “Of both of you, in fact. Dr. Turner’s just offered to see me in his office, instead of the clinic, until I’m good and ready to tell everyone.”

“It doesn’t feel real in these early weeks, does it?”

“No,” Chummy said softly. Too softly, perhaps.

“Is everything alright?” Shelagh asked.

“Oh I’m tip-top.” She smiled bravely. “Bally hormones, that’s all.”

Shelagh smiled back as she took the chair opposite Chummy. Now that she knew nothing was wrong, Shelagh thought she might have a bit of fun revealing her own news. She was sure Chummy would be a good sport about it. And after all, it would be awhile before Shelagh had another chance to tell a friend.

“The mood swings are certainly more challenging than the pamphlets would suggest.” Shelagh said. “Yesterday morning I cried a wee bit just because I couldn’t reach a box of baking soda on the top shelf of the cupboard. If Patrick didn’t treat expectant mothers all the time, he probably would have thought I was going mad!”

Chummy chuckled gamely, then fell quiet and furrowed her brow. “Sorry. Did you say-?” Her cheeks burned pink. “Shelagh? Are you-?”

“Yes! I am,” she beamed.

“Oh!”

Chummy reached across the table for Shelagh’s hands- and promptly knocked over the milk bottle. It shattered on the floor, releasing a sour, over-rich smell that sent Shelagh running for the sink. Chummy scrambled to clean up.

“Gosh. Worse than a bull in a china shop, that’s me. Oh but Shelagh! That’s the most wonderful news! Do you know how far along you are?”

“Not exactly,” Shelagh mumbled into the sink, willing her head to stop spinning. “We think it’s between six and ten weeks right now.”

“Well strike me pink. I’m at eight weeks currently. Seems there’s a frightfully good chance we’ll be throwing joint birthday parties in future years!”

Behind her, Shelagh could hear Chummy sweep up the broken glass and drop it in the rubbish bin. Then she marched off. Shelagh pulled herself upright and looked around. There was no trace of the milk except a little trail of droplets heading out the kitchenette doorway. Chummy must have taken the sodden flannels to the laundry bin straightaway, rather than leaving them to torture Shelagh’s sensitive nose. Bless her.

Shelagh was tucking in to the Rich Tea when Chummy returned. Chummy grinned knowingly.

“I know they’re not very nutritious. But some days, they’re the most substantial thing I can keep down before noon,” Shelagh confided.

“Oh you poor thing. How’s your energy?”

“I’m only a little tired. The nausea’s much worse.”

“I’m quite the opposite,” Chummy confessed. “Still on civil terms with breakfasts, but dozing off while waiting for the autoclave. And on the bus. And during church…” she yawned.

“It’ll all be worth it in the end, though, won’t it?”

“Absolutely,” Chummy asserted. “It’s the most wondrous adventure, rather. Just you wait until you feel the little chap squirming about in there. You’ll be besotted for life.”

“I can hardly wait,” Shelagh breathed. The very notion set her heart a-flutter. Chummy’s knowing smile softened. She reached out to squeeze Shelagh’s hand again- this time without incident.

“I’d imagine your head is whizzing with all manner of wild thoughts.”

“I’m afraid it is. It doesn’t help that I’m at higher risk.”

“Because of your age?”

“That and- well, after the tuberculosis, it was thought that I couldn’t conceive. Now that I have, there’s no reason to anticipate further problems. Still, sometimes I can’t help but think…” 

Shelagh swallowed hard. She pulled her hands back and took her handkerchief from her uniform pocket.

“I’m sorry…” she squeaked.

“It’s quite alright,” Chummy said gently.

She poured the tea into two generous mugs. They each took a sugar cube. Over the clinking of spoons on china, Chummy mused:

“When I was carrying Freddie, I found it wonderfully reassuring to chat with my expectant patients- particularly the multigravidas. Sometimes, all the medical knowledge in the world doesn’t hold a candle to another woman telling you, ‘I pulled through it all, and so will you.’”

“And we have seen mothers come through some extraordinary things,” Shelagh remarked. She thought of Chummy’s first delivery again- and of her tears before the tea. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t carry on when I know that you have worries of your own.”

“But that’s just the thing,” Chummy said. “Cheering you on will help me keep my own spirits up. And vice versa I’m sure. If we rely on one another, we’ll both be the stronger for it; and the months will go by much faster.”

“We’ll be pushing prams together before you know it.”

“That’s the spirit,” Chummy agreed.

Shelagh took a long, slow sip of her tea. The earthen warmth grounded her, soothing away the lump in her throat. It was time to move on to the lighter side of the topic at hand.

“Have you told Peter yet?”

“Just last week.”

“And was he terribly thrilled?” Shelagh gently teased.

Chummy sat back in her chair, with a distant, blissful look in her eyes. “Oh, yes.”

\-----

They could be in Nonnatus House or the surgery, in church or the choral society. Wherever Shelagh and Chummy crossed paths in the weeks to come, they shared a secret smile. Well- Shelagh’s smile was small and secret. Chummy was liable to grin from ear to rapidly-pinking ear. Not that anyone commented. It seemed acquaintances were used to seeing Nurse Noakes grin and blush like a schoolgirl. Although, to Chummy’s credit, Shelagh saw her hold back from fussing whenever Shelagh popped some Rennies or stifled a wave of nausea in her hankie.

One day the two of them were alone in the Nonnatus clinical room. Chummy pointedly glanced about for onlookers, then whispered something to Shelagh. Only she was too quiet; Shelagh could only see her mouthing the words.

“Come again?”

Chummy winced apologetically before doing the exact same thing, soundless and inscrutable. Shelagh found herself biting back unkind words. Lately it seemed her ire was just an annoyance’s scratch beneath the surface…

“Nurse Noakes, whatever it is, would you please, kindly just spit it out?”

“Sorry,” Chummy sighed. “Sorry. I- well- I told Peter. About your…”

“I see.”

“It sort of just- slipped out. Last night. We were all cuddled up listening to _Take it From Here._ I was dreadfully dozy… But I haven’t blabbed to anyone else. Guides’ honor. And I was sure to tell him it’s still top secret, just like ours. Lips sealed from here on out. Not a syllable, what!”

“Not a syllable about what?” asked Sister Winifred as she came in with a delivery bag. Chummy blanched. It was up to Shelagh to think up a good lie while pressing her aching temples.

“The, erm… the children’s Easter baskets. We’re going to surprise Tim, Angela and Freddie with chocolate rabbits this year.”

“Oh isn’t that nice!” Sister Winifred cooed. “Just make sure they brush their teeth afterwards!”

The pair of mums-to-be chuckled rather lamely. Chummy’s shoulders slumped and her face grew long. She looked like she wished she could sink through the floor. While Sister Winifred was busy unloading her bag, Shelagh snuck a squeeze of Chummy’s hand. She smiled up at her.

It certainly wasn’t the end of the world. After all, Shelagh’s husband already knew of Chummy’s condition. Perhaps it was only fair that Peter Noakes know about Shelagh’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My eternal thanks to cooldoyouhaveaflag for being such a supportive and insightful beta, even as we both have all kinds of stuff going on in life!


	5. In This Together

“Camilla! Are you coming down?”

Peter scooped some fried eggs onto a plate by the stove. Camilla’s breakfast shared the countertop with sauce-stained potholders, jam-stickied flannels, and yesterday’s plates and mugs. But Peter didn’t have time to move her plate to the marginally cleaner kitchen table. He had to get cracking on his own eggs. His shift started in an hour. Camilla’s started in half that time.

“Wakey wakey, love!” he called up through the ceiling.

He listened for footsteps upstairs, but heard none. When he last saw her ten minutes ago, Camilla had been stumbling about their bedroom in search of clean stockings. But that was no guarantee that she was still awake now. Lately, their bed had a habit of pulling her back in after she’d risen for the day.

_“Camilla!”_

“There’s no need to _shout,_ Peter,” she grumbled as she shuffled into the kitchen. “Have you seen my shoes? The bally things have walked off on their own volition… And what’s this all over the floor?”

“Palm fronds,” Peter reported. Freddie had taken yesterday’s Sunday School prop, peeled it into thin curling strands, and scattered them across the lino. Their little boy was supposed to be ready for Camilla to take him to nursery school. Instead he was presently running through the house in his vest and pants, chanting “Hosannah” and making donkey noises.

Camilla grabbed a dustpan and bent over to sweep up the palm bits. Peter heard a quiet _snap!_ Camilla gasped as she righted herself. Her nursing uniform pulled open for a couple inches, just below her waist. Peter realized that noise had been one of the buttons flying off. A new little roundness had strained her trim blue dress to the breaking point.

She pouted when she caught him smiling. “It’s not what you think- not yet. Only water weight, and too many chippies.”

“And whose fault is it we haven’t been having dinners at home?”

_“Peter.”_

“I’m only saying. You’re running yourself ragged. Right now it’d be enough to keep house and look after Freddie. But then you throw in work on top of it…”

“I can’t just quit Nonnatus,” she huffed. They’d had this argument before.

“I’m not telling you to _just quit._ Give ‘em your two weeks.”

“But in two weeks’ time I’ll have no reason to resign. I’ll be hitting my second-trimester stride then. You’ll see. It’ll all be tickety-boo, just like in Freetown.”

_This isn’t Freetown,_ Peter thought. In Freetown they had a two-room flat in the mission’s compound, tended by a communal housekeeper. In Freetown they didn’t have a three-year-old running underfoot. In Freetown, Camilla’s nursing work was their _raison d’etre,_ not a part-time volunteering gig.

Peter knew, probably better than most East End husbands, that his wife was in for some challenges in the months to come. He wished he could make her life easier. But he only had so many free hours. His salary kept the roof over their heads; it couldn’t be his top priority to keep things tidy beneath said roof.

He looked after Freddie when he could. He popped down the shops for the little things that Camilla was constantly forgetting. He made them all fried egg sandwiches for dinner some nights. Meanwhile, the dishes, the laundry, and the Hoovering all fell by the wayside. Camilla would almost catch up on her days off- only to have things fall to pieces again on her workdays. She’d been fretting about letting out the seams on that uniform for two weeks now, but she’d never found the time. And now this.

He watched her sigh and pout as she tried to smooth the dress closed over her girdle. His frustration gave way to tenderness. To him it seemed so simple: if she’d only give up nursing, she’d be back on an even keel in no time flat. But he knew it wasn’t that simple for her. Nursing was Camilla’s calling. The conviction of that calling, the depth of her caring for others- he loved her for these things.

“Have you still got any of your older uniforms? They might still fit,” he suggested. Camilla had been a bit more on the plump side when she first came to Poplar.

“I think so, yes.”

“Well go on then. I’ll take Freddie to nursery. You go and get changed, then pop these eggs between some bread for breakfast on the run.”

“Mr. Ingenious.” She reached out and squeezed his hand, with an apologetic little smile. “Thank you.”

Peter got Freddie dressed, packed his lunch pail, and drove him to nursery school. Freddie was obliging enough. Now that he’d stopped running around, he channeled his excess beans into babbling on about bunny rabbits. Peter mumbled the occasional obligatory “yeah?” and “is that right?”

By the time they reached the door to Freddie’s classroom, he was telling Daddy how he must have been a rabbit before he was a policeman. Because Daddy’s name was Peter, Freddie explained, that meant he was Peter Rabbit.

Peter scrunched up his nose and mimed gnawing a carrot. Freddie shrieked with laughter. “You’ve found out my secret!” he teased. “But how’d you know that Daddy’s name is Peter?”

“’Cos Mummy says ‘Peter.’ And Daddy says ‘Milla’, and that’s Mummy.”

“Nothing gets past them,” remarked Patrick Turner, striding up the corridor from the two-year-olds’ classroom. “Yesterday we heard Angela scolding one of her stuffed bears, _‘Oh, Patrick!’_ Just like Shelagh does to me.”

Peter chuckled. He gave Freddie a goodbye hug, then he and the doctor walked out together. Mothers and teachers turned and smiled as they passed. Patrick Turner tended to have that effect on the fairer sex. The handsome old doc was standing a bit taller than usual, and smiling for no apparent reason. Peter wondered if the ladies noticed this, consciously or not. He only noticed because he knew what that smile was for.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” Peter said.

“Thanks. You too, then? Imagine that,” Patrick grinned lopsidedly. “Mornings been a bit rough?”

“Only ‘cos she’s knackered all the time. She seems to have dodged the bullet on stomach upsets,” Peter boasted. He suddenly realized that might sound insensitive, depending on how Patrick’s wife was faring. “Erm, how’s Mrs. Turner?”

“She’s soldiering on. Starting to get the hang of breakfasts again- as long as no one fries up any bacon or eggs.”

“Can’t imagine Tim likes that.”

“No, he doesn’t. In fact, I think he’s getting suspicious,” the doctor chuckled. “Our amateur diagnostician.”

They emerged from the front entrance. The Turners’ boat of an Austin was parked right in front of the Noakes’ squat, secondhand Vauxhall. Patrick offered Peter a congratulatory cigarette. Peter took it, even though he didn’t smoke.

“Give Nurse Noakes my regards,” said Patrick. “And rest assured: I’ll do everything I can to help her.”

“We’ll both do whatever we can. For both of them,” Peter blurted. The doctor looked surprised. “Well, erm, we’re all in this together, aren’t we?”

“Yes… Quite right… Well, good day, Sergeant.”

Peter spent half the drive to the station mentally kicking himself. Patrick Turner was their G.P.; obviously, there were plenty of ways that he’d help Camilla through the pregnancy. But how in blue blazes was Peter going to help Mrs. Turner? Why did he even _say_ that?

\-----

Peter was training a new constable on traffic control. The Dock Road made for a healthy challenge for the kid. The North Atlantic shipping routes were perking up after the winter lull, while the ships up from Africa were rushing to beat the monsoon season. The roads were dense with lorries, piled high with sacks of coal, grain and sugar. They could hear the workmen down at the waterfront shouting orders to one another: bracing, vigorous, eager. Hearts were pumping, the river was running high, and fat paychecks were on the way.

Then came the explosion.

“Come on!” Peter ordered. He and the constable took off running. The fire alarm began clamoring while they were en route. The men’s shouting had taken on an entirely different tone.

They arrived at the waterside to find dense smoke pouring from a storehouse. Small fires moldered here and there. Coughing men slumped against the sacks and barrels outside. Two others had beat them to the scene. Peter was surprised at who they were. One was his little cousin Valerie; Mum mentioned she’d recently come home from Army nursing.

The other was Mrs. Turner.

“We need to get these men away from the building, and check them for smoke damage and burns,” Mrs. Turner told Val.

Peter blew his whistle. “Everyone out!” he hollered. “Get away from the building!”

The two nurses shepherded the workmen away, offering calming words and shoulders to lean on. The fire brigade arrived and began taking orders from the foreman.

The young constable stood agape. “You go and clear the route for the ambulance,” Peter ordered. The lad set off. Peter scanned the scene one last time. He was about to follow his trainee up the road when:

“Arthur Pilbury and George Marsh. They’re still in there!”

A workman pointed back into the smoldering warehouse. The foreman looked stricken. Peter locked eyes with Mrs. Turner. He could see that she was ready to leap in and help. But Peter remembered her condition.

“We’ll get them,” he told her. “Me and Nurse Dyer.”

“But Sergeant-“

“You help the men _out here,_” he said sternly. She bit her lip, then nodded.

The foreman led Peter towards the warehouse. When the foreman turned back and saw Val following too, he scowled. “The bloody wiring must’ve caused this. It’ll still be dangerous, miss!”

“I’m a nurse. I can help,” she said. The foreman sighed and shook his head, but didn’t protest. Peter was proud of Val. Like his mum, aunts, and all the other Dyer women: she was made of sterner stuff.

Out of the dust they saw a workman on his knees. Another man laid still on the concrete floor. The kneeling man screamed for help as he cradled the other man’s head in his hands.

“It’s alright, mate!” Peter called. “We’re here to help.”

The man on his knees craned his face upward, searching. He was badly burned, including on his face. Peter doubted he could see them.

“I’m Sergeant Noakes. I’m here with Nurse Dyer,” Peter explained.

“You know me, George,” Val said soothingly. “Val, from the pub!”

“Val! Val, what’s happened to me?”

“I’ll see to your friend here,” Peter told George as he and Val crouched down beside the men. “You let Val sort you out, yeah?”

Peter checked the unconscious man for a pulse. He couldn’t find one. But then, the severe burns made it hard to find a spot, and shock could make the pulse slow or erratic. Peter started prepping for CPR, just in case.

Val tried to calm George. He was panicking over his eyes. Who could blame him? Val warned him not to touch them. The foreman stood back a small distance, shining a torch over the wretched scene. Val turned to him.

“You got fresh water?”

“There’s none down ‘ere. We’re just a warehouse, we’re not equipped.”

Peter recalled Val ordering men to go fetch clean water from Auntie Florrie’s pub. They should be coming back soon. “Val, you help George get outside,” he said. “Get him cleaned up.”

Val and the foreman helped George to his feet. Val eased George’s arm over her shoulders and led him forward, inching through a maze of burlap sacks.

“I can’t see,” George panted. “I can’t see nothin!”

“Lean on me, George, that’s it. It’s alright, I gotcha…” Val cajoled him along. “You’re gonna be fine. The doctor’ll be here soon… Here, your Jessie might’ve had her baby by now…”

A lump sprang up in Peter’s throat.

The other man wasn’t responding to CPR. But Peter just couldn’t give up. Not yet. He was in such a trance over it, he scarcely heard the spark of live wires fraying overhead.

“Sarge,” the foreman warned.

“Come on, mate… Come on, breathe…” More sparks were flying. Peter was having trouble listening for a breath. Not that he really thought there would be one. He’d been here for nearly three minutes now and found no signs of life.

_“Sarge!”_

The sheer panic in the foreman’s voice pulled Peter to his feet. As they scrambled out, the world seemed to go flat and quiet. Time slowed down.

Peter almost made it to the doorway. Then a wave of blazing heat swept him from behind. Strangely, he wouldn’t remember the sound of the explosion. The last thing he’d remember would be the sight of concrete lurching up to meet him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to cooldoyouhaveaflag for insights, tips, and squeeing with me over toddler cuteness and “DTE”! :-D


	6. Where One Is Needed Most

Chummy sat rigid in the backseat of the Turners’ car. She didn’t move, apart from running her thumb up and down the cross on her necklace. That and breathing. Barely.

It was as if she were in a diving bell. Or perhaps she _was_ the diving bell, and Baby was the one sitting inside. Either way: if one didn’t move about, didn’t panic, didn’t _think,_ then perhaps they would all be safe. If one could stay still enough, perhaps time would go still as well. And then, if one could only find a way to turn time back…

She had been so horrid to him this morning…

The car stopped. Shelagh coaxed Chummy out. She walked slowly at first. But she’d emerged from her bell now. As soon as she let herself think again, her mind raced with thoughts of Peter. Inertia carried her across the St. Cuthbert’s car park. Soon she was flying; Dr. Turner had to steady her as they stopped at the main entrance. Shelagh jogged to catch up with them.

They were met in the lobby by a slender young woman in black slacks and a pink knit top. Chummy recognized her but couldn’t place her. She took Chummy’s hands in her own. (One of her hands was bandaged, Chummy noticed.) She spoke in a sweet yet commanding tone, with a broad Cockney accent:

“Camilla, d’you remember me? I’m Val: one of Peter’s cousins. I was at your wedding. And I was at the docks with Peter today.”

“Peter?”

“He’ll be alright, love,” Val soothed. “He’s come a bit of a cropper. Second-degree burns, two fractured ribs and a concussion. They’ve got him all tucked up on the men’s ward. We’ll go and sit with him, yeah?”

“Yes. Th- thank you.” Chummy gulped. She let this kindly, familiar woman- with calm, gray-blue eyes like Peter’s- lead her down the corridor by the hand.

Peter’s hospital bed was generously reclined. His head sank deep into the pillows. There was a cold compress on his forehead. His face and arms were riddled with scrapes, bruises, and the angry-pink splotches of first-degree burns. Surely there was worse damage beneath the bandages patchworking his body. He was lying very still; at first Chummy thought he was asleep. But at the sound of her footsteps, he turned his head gingerly, opened his eyes and smiled.

“Hello love,” he rasped.

Ever since news of the explosion was telephoned to Nonnatus, Chummy had felt all tied up in knots. Now the knots all came undone. She felt herself breathe again, then tremble, then well up.

“Which ribs?” she asked, her voice pitching.

“Six and seven, right side,” Val reported. Chummy pulled up a chair at Peter’s left side. She coaxed his hand into hers as if it were a baby bird.

“Good to see you,” he half-whispered.

She gave a sob and scrambled for her hankie. It was a good thing he was glad to see her, because he’d be seeing an awful lot more of her now! She vowed to take advantage of every last minute of hospital visiting hours. And once he was discharged, she would become his own personal in-home nurse. She would not return to work until he was back in tip-top form!

“What were you-“ she hiccupped. “_-thinking?_ Rushing in at-“ (hic) “-a time like this?”

She smoothed a hand across her middle. Val made a noise of happy surprise.

“Mrs. Turner,” Peter mumbled.

“She’s alright, Pete,” Val offered.

“I know. I went in.” He paused wearily. “So she wouldn’t.”

“Oh!” Chummy shook her head. “Peter…!”

Tears overtook her completely. What was she supposed to think? To feel? She was terribly proud of Peter. He had done the right thing. And yet she still wondered: _What if…?_ What if she’d had to raise Freddie alone? What if this new little one had never seen his father’s face?

She wished she could sweep away the _what if,_ with its fierce preemptive grief- and yes, even anger. After all, Peter was going to be alright. That was all that mattered now. How could she be angry, when he’d acted to spare harm to a good friend of theirs- and another expectant mother? 

She couldn’t be angry. It was monstrously selfish of her. And now she was a sniffing, hiccupping mess, to boot. Her poor old hankie was all twisted up, and very nearly saturated...

Val nudged a clean, folded handkerchief against Chummy’s elbow.

“Here. I keep this one for show and sharing,” Val smiled.

Chummy took the hankie gratefully. Val gently rubbed Chummy’s arm.

“Let it out, love. It’s alright. You’ve just been through a wife’s worst nightmare.”

Val and Peter shared a look. Chummy was presently too overwhelmed to interpret its meaning, but she could tell it meant _something._ An unspoken chastisement? A shared understanding within the family?

“I’m sorry, Camilla,” Peter rasped.

She nodded up out of the hankie. “It’s alright. I’m just… so bally glad you’re still here.”

She gave Val a trembling smile.

“And I’m glad that you’re here, as well.”

“Val’s a nurse,” Peter bragged hoarsely. “Army Corps.”

Val smiled and nodded, appropriately modest. _A fellow nurse?_ Chummy thought. _That explains the magic hankie._

\-----

It was the first time Patsy had heard her father’s voice in over a year. He was awfully quiet. The words came slowly, as if with great effort. It seemed strange that such frailty could even withstand the journey through six thousand miles of telephone wire. 

A sentimental woman would tell him it was good to hear his voice. It wasn’t. It made Patsy remember his voice when she was a child: how he barked orders at the house staff, haggled vigorously with his suppliers, greeted his clients with booming jocularity. That voice had died already; but its owner was left to struggle along for untold weeks or months. Damn motor neuron disease. Hadn’t her father already been tortured enough for one lifetime?

A doting daughter would tell him it was all going to be alright, and then promise to catch the very next boat to come and see him. But Patsy found herself unable to offer any such reassurances- no matter how much Father’s nurse wheedled.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said. It was the most that she could promise them honestly.

A better daughter would have lied.

Perhaps it was a mistake to promise even that. Perhaps she’d been swept into uncharacteristic sentimentality by this highly eventful day. The thrill of breaking Sister Ursula’s rules. Her fear for Penny Reed’s safety. And the rush of relief when Penny and her baby pulled through.

Patsy needed to let her mind settle. She needed to find something to clean. She could stop and take stock in a few hours. See if she still felt compelled to put her life on an indefinite hold: to sail halfway around the world just to sit at the deathbed of a man she hadn’t laid eyes on in eight years.

She’d been on quite a few cleaning sprees lately. Her bedroom, Delia’s bedroom, and the nurses’ bathroom were all spit-spot. She’d given the clinical room an extra-vigorous scrubbing a few nights ago. Where next, then? She’d look a bit mad cleaning the corridors or stairwell unbidden in the middle of the day. She’d get in Mrs. B.’s way in the kitchen or dining room. That left the chapel. She’d give the cloisters a good seeing-to first; they seemed a likely haven for mold colonies.

But the chapel wasn’t empty when she arrived. Chummy Noakes sat alone in the front row. Her eyes were open, but Patsy could tell she was praying. She had the little gold cross on her necklace pressed to her lips. She slouched in her chair, allowing her gaze to turn heavenward as she stared through the stained-glass window behind the altar.

Patsy was going to leave her in peace. But at the sound of her heels on the wooden floor, Chummy sat up straight, turned around and smiled.

“Oh! Nurse Mount. Don’t mind me. And for the record: Freddie’s at nursery today. I wouldn’t dare charge any of you with running after him just so that I could steal a chat with the Almighty.”

Mrs. Torpy, Chummy’s neighbor with whom she swapped babysitting duties, had recently moved back to Ireland. And the nursery school only had young Freddie for three days each week. After Peter was injured at the docks last week, the Nonnatus nurses drew up a rota to watch Freddie on the other four days. This gave Chummy the chance to visit Peter in hospital every day.

When Sister Ursula found out, she’d gone all pinch-faced and enquired as to whether anyone else- perhaps a relative or another neighbor- could watch the child? When Chummy found out, she’d gotten moist-eyed and said her colleagues were being entirely too generous, giving of their precious few days off work. Chummy didn’t seem to realize the depth of satisfaction that her colleagues got from babysitting her son. It was one thing to help a friend in her hour of need; but even better was the chance to subtly spite Sister Ursula. Her recent lecture about how they shouldn’t be Poplar’s “maids and nannies” had stuck in everyone’s craw.

“I’m only here to clean,” Patsy explained. “I can come back later, if you’d prefer some privacy.”

“Not at all, old bean. It’s all glad tidings today. Prayers of thanksgiving and such.”

Patsy tiptoed up the aisle. The chapel was permeated with the strong, sweet scent of the Easter lilies on the altar. Sunlight filtered through the windows and into the lilies’ vases, softened and warmed with every layer of glass. Chummy seemed to glow as brightly as the vases, despite the tired shadows beneath her eyes.

_Prayers of thanksgiving._ Patsy thought of Derek Reed hugging and shaking hands with all the hospital staff. She recalled Penny’s quiet awe as she held her daughter for the first time. When Chummy patted the empty chair beside her, Patsy took it.

“Is Peter doing well?”

“Quite,” Chummy replied. “He’s on a rather low dose of morphine now, and being a terribly good soldier with his breathing exercises. The burns are healing nicely. If all continues to go well, they’ll discharge him on Monday. Knock on wood.”

Patsy rapped her knuckles on the chair. “I’m glad to hear it. I’m sure the Man upstairs is glad to hear it too.”

“Absolutely.”

“Do the doctors know how soon Peter will be back at work? And you as well?” Patsy asked.

Perhaps if Chummy had a sense of when she’d be returning to Nonnatus, Patsy could schedule her departure to Hong Kong around it. It would be nice to feel as if she was passing off the baton to someone. Granted, Chummy only worked part-time, and she seemed to be fraying a bit under Sister Ursula’s harsh new rule. Recently she’d been a bit tetchy and unkempt. She was tardy some days, and even turned up once in an older-issue nurses’ uniform. Patsy had assumed she’d fallen dreadfully behind on laundry.

“Peter hopes to be back on desk duty in a month or so,” Chummy replied. “As for me… well I’m not so sure, actually.”

“Don’t tell me you’re letting yourself be cowed out of the job by Sister Ursula,” Patsy chided.

“No, that’s not it…”

Chummy smiled down at her hands folded in her lap. Patsy followed her gaze; she noticed Chummy seemed to have filled out a bit. Suddenly it clicked: the morning tardiness, the moodiness, the joyful glow. Patsy knew the instant before Chummy said it:

“I’m expecting another baby. I’ve just reached twelve weeks, safe and sound. Another reason to thank ‘the Man upstairs,’ as you call Him.”

“Oh that’s wonderful news, old bean! Congratulations,” Patsy beamed.

“I have to say: it’s been the sort of silver lining of Peter’s injury. Up until last week, I was so bally frazzled, and now…” Chummy looked up to the stained glass again, took a deep breath. “I’m sure I’ll be back at Nonnatus sooner or later. One simply can’t stay away. But for the time being, it’s all about our little family. We’ve been given a chance to rest. To care for one another.”

Patsy bit her lip, fighting an urge to pick up her steel wool and Sunlight and go running for the cloisters. Chummy was daydreamy, contemplative:

“It’s a rather nice change of pace: slowing down, re-prioritizing, all of that. Sometimes one needs to simply be where one is needed most.”

“Hear, hear.” Patsy blinked hard a few times. “Well. Good for you, Chummy. And- thank you.”

“Whatever for?”

Patsy didn’t answer. She simply clapped the mother-to-be on the shoulder before hurrying out of the chapel. Tears dared to breach her eyes for the third time in a single day. She was halfway down the main corridor when she realized she’d left the cleaning supplies beneath her chair in the chapel. Oh, bally bugger it. She’d have to go back for them after she’d fixed her mascara- and placed another phone call to Hong Kong. She was ready to make bigger promises this time. She would go where she was needed most.

“Nurse Mount!” Sister Ursula called.

Patsy stopped still. She took a deep breath as she heard the stern nun come up behind her.

“May I have a few moments of your time?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to asinusasinumfricat, who came out of nowhere and absolutely made my day. Oh, who are we kidding? That made my WEEK. It really is every fic author’s dream to hear someone read their stories over and over. I’m so glad my silly daydreams put to paper brought you such enjoyment!


	7. But Mary Kept All These Things

Shelagh sat outside the courtroom with Nurse Dyer and the Noakes. Sergeant Noakes sat stiffly, gingerly, in his police uniform. The women were all in skirt suits of somber navy or black. They spoke little, each lost in their own thoughts.

Arthur Pilbury’s death in the docks explosion was being investigated by the coroner’s court. Sergeant Noakes, Nurse Dyer, and Shelagh were all invited to speak as witnesses. Patrick had told Shelagh- repeatedly- not to get anxious about this. But how could she not? Their words couldn’t bring Arthur Pilbury back- but they might influence the court’s decision on what support should be provided to his widow. Or compensation for the injured workers. Or safety measures that should be implemented at the docks, to help prevent future disasters.

Nurse Dyer lit a cigarette. "Is that Henleys?” Sergeant Noakes asked her.

“Yeah.” She grinned sheepishly. “Don’t tell Uncle Billy.”

“Does he not like Henleys?” Shelagh asked.

“Not since that time they…” Sergeant Noakes trailed off. He took another, shallow breath. “Made ‘im foot the bill…”

“For a lost order for his shop, yeah,” Nurse Dyer finished for him.

There were stilted, quiet chuckles all around. Chummy squeezed her husband’s hand as he caught his breath.

The coroner’s clerk appeared in the doorway. “Sergeant Peter Noakes?”

Chummy helped Sergeant Noakes to his feet. Shelagh had to wonder whether he even had the strength for a court testimony. But then, perhaps there was strength to be found in weakness. It could impress upon the jury the seriousness of the accident: to see a strapping policeman shuffle in with help from his wife, bandages on his hands and across one cheek, out of puff and guarding the right side of his chest.

_Perhaps,_ Shelagh thought, _if we could convince some of the injured dockworkers to testify as well…_

The courtroom doors shut with a weighty, institutional _thud._ Shelagh and Nurse Dyer were left in the silence again. Mostly just to say _something,_ Shelagh remarked:

“It’s an odd coincidence, that you and Sergeant Noakes are cousins.”

“Not that odd, if you know my family. Which you probably do, one way or another,” Nurse Dyer quipped. “I’m related to half of Poplar! My great-granddad had eleven kids live to adulthood; most of them’ve had big families, too. Pete and I are first cousins; my dad and his mum are brother and sister.”

“It must be nice having so many loved ones nearby.”

“It is, most of the time. Can get a _bit_ claustrophobic, everyone knowin’ your business.” She smiled sardonically. “And sad to say, there’s some’ll cut you down as a ‘tall poppy’ if you leave the East End or ‘marry up.’ Poor Auntie Myrtle- Pete’s mum. Some of the aunties are _still_ sore about her marrying a bobby. And then taking her kids to her brother-in-law’s horse farm during the War.”

“Oh?”

“The rest of us were billeted- if we left London at all, that is. ‘Course, it don’t seem so bad when you’re a kid. Bit like summer camp… Cor!” Nurse Dyer chided herself. “Here I am, talking your ear off…”

“It’s quite alright,” Shelagh assured her.

“It’s nerves, I suppose. You should’ve seen me fussing over my outfit this morning. Still, it took my mind off things.” She shook her head sadly. “All the questions they might ask, and all the answers I want to give, keep going round and round inside my head.”

“Oh mine too,” Shelagh sighed with relief.

Nurse Dyer gave her a sympathetic look. “You just want to get it right, don’t you? For the sake of the victims.”

“Yes.”

“George Marsh and Arthur Pilbury deserved better. They weren’t soldiers going into battle; they were men doing a job. And it could’ve been avoided.”

Nurse Dyer spoke with the authority of someone who’d spent her whole life around either workingmen or soldiers. There was a quiet steeliness to her conviction; it certainly made it easier to see that she and Peter Noakes were related. Shelagh felt compelled to live up to that conviction. As if there wasn’t enough weight on her shoulders already…

The heavy doors creaked open. The clerk called: “Mrs. Shelagh Turner?”

Nurse Dyer gently squeezed her arm. “Do your best for them.”

Everything echoed in the courtroom. Shelagh’s Sunday-best heels on the granite floor; the clacking of the secretary’s typewriter; a quiet sob from the gallery. She turned as much as she dared, and spotted Arthur Pilbury’s widow dipping her face into her handkerchief.

The coroner confirmed Shelagh’s name, address and occupation. Then he asked her to describe her actions in the immediate aftermath of the incident. _The incident._ That’s what he called the pair of explosions that killed a man, and sent nine more to hospital.

She took a deep breath before starting. This was the moment she’d been preparing for all week.

“I was walking through Gibson & Company’s dockyards on my way back to work, having just finished with a mobile vaccination clinic nearby. I was already on the scene when the first explosion occurred in storeroom C.”

That was the part of her account that had frightened Patrick the most: how close Shelagh was to the initial blast. How she’d felt the heat of the flames at her back. How she’d been momentarily deafened by the noise. She thought of the way his face crumpled when she told him. His large, strong hands had trembled slightly as they wrapped around her own…

She took another deep breath.

“I escorted workmen away from the building and checked them for smoke inhalations, burns, contusions, broken bones or concussions. The foreman, a Mr. Francis Hughes, informed me that there was no running water or first aid supplies on hand. I had to make do with the supplies in my nurse’s bag.” She swallowed hard. “Perhaps if there had been-”

“Thank you, Mrs. Turner,” the coroner cut in. “Can you recall how much time passed between the initial explosion and the secondary one?”

Her stomach clenched. “I… I’m sorry. I couldn’t say.”

She felt like a fool. She’d spent the past week visiting the more severely injured men in hospital. After offering her sympathies, she’d inquired after each one’s diagnosis, treatment and prognosis. _This_ was the information she’d assumed the court wanted from her: her expertise as a nurse. She didn’t expect to play timekeeper. Though perhaps she should have. She silently chastised herself. How hard would it have been to spare a glimpse or two at her uniform watch?

“It’s alright, Mrs. Turner,” said the coroner. “We understand that several first responders entered storeroom C between the two blasts.”

“I wasn’t one of them,” she blurted, hating how meek she sounded. “But we didn’t even realize at first that there were still injured men inside. Had there been a workmen’s register-“

“Mrs. Turner,” the coroner said evenly. “I was merely going to ask if you could confirm the identities of those who entered the storeroom.”

“Oh. Yes. Erm. It was Mr. Hughes, Sergeant Peter Noakes, and Nurse Valerie Dyer.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Turner. We are appreciative of your time.”

She let herself be escorted from the courtroom, her face hot with embarrassment. _That’s it? That’s all they wanted from me? How could that testimony make any difference for the dockworkers? Would they have let me speak more if I’d kept my composure better? If I’d gone into storeroom C with the others? If I were a man?_

She kept her eyes on the speckled marble floor. She avoided looking Mrs. Pilbury, Nurse Dyer, or the Noakes in the eye. She tried to stop the corridor from spinning, but found her efforts were in vain.

She beelined for the ladies’ room, threw open a stall door and fell to her knees. She trembled as she rested her forearms on the seat and her head in her hands. The room began to steady. After just a few timid, dry gags, her stomach gave up protest. Thank goodness.

She leaned back, relishing the coolness of the metal door against the back of her head. She’d be up and about in a minute or two. Frankly, this was a breeze compared to just a few weeks ago.

_They say the first trimester is the hardest,_ she thought, smiling down at her lap. _That means we’ve already made it through the hardest part, wee one. I pray for you all the time, you know. I pray that you’re growing bigger and stronger every day. Perhaps we’ll start telling more of Mummy and Daddy’s friends about you-_

A hiccupping sob echoed against the tile. She looked down the row and saw a large pair of feet, in stockings and black flats, pacing one of the other stalls.

“Is everything alright?”

“Oh gosh! Shelagh!” answered a familiar voice. “Not to worry. I’m tip-top and” (hic) “tickety-boo.”

Shelagh heard Chummy unlatch her stall door. She scrambled to her feet. The women met at the sinks. Chummy was holding a hand-knitted, lemon-yellow matinee jacket and matching booties.

“It’s from Peter’s Auntie Grace, via” (hic) “Valerie,” Chummy explained. “We told Peter’s mother about the baby last week. Apparently, she took the liberty of telling the entire family.”

“That sounds a bit overwhelming.”

Chummy nodded, her face pulling long as she held back tears. “One shouldn’t be superstitious, especially in our” (hic) “line of work. But it feels terribly early to start ‘nesting’. Like tempting fate… Gosh. I” (hic) “sound like such a fool…”

“Not at all,” Shelagh said quietly. “I think I’d feel the same, honestly.”

“It’s such a spiffing little outfit. In a” (hic) “few months’ time, it can have pride of place in the nursery bureau. But for now, one almost wants to…” she stopped and bit her lip.

“One almost wants to hurl it into the back of the closet and forget it’s there?”

“Yes!” (hic) “Precisely!”

In truth, Shelagh wasn’t just guessing how Chummy must feel. She’d once felt the same way about a christening gown. Only the gown wasn’t a gift: Shelagh had been sewing it herself, in hope for the future. When those hopes were dashed, she was blessed to have someone stronger and wiser than her who could take the gown for safekeeping.

“I think I know of somewhere we can keep this,” Shelagh smiled. “Just until the bureau is ready.”

\-----

When Sister Julienne agreed to see Nurses Turner and Noakes in private, she pictured herself hosting the two women in her office, offering words of comfort or encouragement whilst planning the way ahead. Then she remembered that the office was no longer hers. And she was no longer qualified to make any plans.

Sister Monica Joan took it upon herself to bring a tea tray to Sister Julienne’s cell. That, at least, made things feel a little like old times. Sister Monica Joan brought extra milk and sugar, and a generous quantity of Mrs. B’s chocolate macaroons. At the sight of the decadent biscuits, both nurses’ eyes lit up like those of children stood outside the sweetie shop. Sister Julienne remembered Shelagh’s happy news- and her suspicions about Nurse Noakes. But she quietly bit back a smile.

Sister Monica Joan was somewhat more forward. In her own unique way.

“But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart,” the elderly Sister pronounced. She smiled at both of the nurses in turn- a gentle, lingering smile. And a knowing one.

Then she glided out of the room, leaving both nurses with mouths agape and cheeks aflame. Nurse Noakes’ hand even flitted to her tummy.

“Gosh. Is it that obvious already? I’m only fourteen weeks.”

“So you _are_ expecting?” Sister Julienne asked. Nurse Noakes simply nodded. “Oh that’s wonderful news! I shall pray for you and your family.”

“Thank you, Sister,” she murmured. She stared into her lap, looking up only to give Shelagh and Sister Julienne the quickest of bashful smiles.

Shelagh cleared her throat. “We asked to see you today on account of a gift Nurse Noakes has just received. It’s still so very early, and we wondered if you might keep it safe for her, just for a few months.”

Nurse Noakes dug a baby outfit from her bag and held it out to Sister Julienne. It was made of the softest lemon-yellow three-ply, and so expertly knitted that Sister Julienne checked inside for a tag. But there was none; it was homemade. Such a gift would carry tremendous love and hopes from the giver. No wonder it felt like too much at just fourteen weeks.

“I will gladly keep this safe for you,” Sister Julienne promised. “It’s the least I can do since, unfortunately, I cannot advise you on when and how to return to work.”

Nurse Noakes pulled a face. “I suppose I should speak to Sister Ursula before I leave today.”

Shelagh patted her hand in sympathy. She was too busy tucking in to the macaroons to actually say anything.

“Does she already know? Does _everyone_ know?” Nurse Noakes cast a glance towards the cell door, as if she might catch all of Nonnatus eavesdropping in the corridor. “I told Patsy before she left, and I rather suspect Phyllis knows. But I would have pegged them both as paragons of discretion.”

“They are,” Sister Julienne agreed. “And the others wouldn’t dare presume. But there has been some… benign speculation.”

As Nurse Noakes busied herself with the macaroons, Sister Juliennes caught Shelagh’s eye. The Sister raised an eyebrow, asking, _Does she know about yours?_ Shelagh replied with a nigh-imperceptible nod.

“About both of you, in fact.”

“I suppose my steady intake of Rennies hasn’t escaped notice,” Shelagh grinned.

Sister Julienne chuckled. “No, it hasn’t. And I was sorely tempted to spill the beans to Nurse Hereward after the Clipboard Incident. Just to put the poor girl’s mind at ease.”

“The Clipboard Incident?” Nurse Noakes asked.

“At clinic yesterday,” Shelagh explained. “Nurse Hereward and I collided around a corner. She sort of… jammed my clipboard squarely against my bust.”

Nurse Noakes inhaled sharply, wincing.

“I’m afraid I scarcely stopped myself from calling her something… very un-Christian. I apologized, of course. But I still feel terrible.”

“Well I’m quite sure she’ll forgive you, once you’ve explained,” said Nurse Noakes. “Just as poor Fred will be rather relieved when I explain the Stoop Incident.”

“I think I remember that one!” Sister Julienne smiled. “Three or four weeks ago, when you came back to Nonnatus with a flat tire?”

“Whilst Fred was patching up the old warhouse, I had a purely unintentional ‘kip’ on the front stoop,” Nurse Noakes explained to Shelagh. Shelagh nearly snorted well-sugared tea out of her nose.

Down the corridor, they heard Nurse Hereward plodding up the stairs after her lengthy afternoon rounds. _“Hello, Babs,”_ Nurse Busby called. _“Fancy joining the nuns in recreation hour?”_

The nurses brushed macaroon crumbs from their skirts, while Sister Julienne stood and moved the empty tea tray out of their way.

“Are you ready to announce your glad tidings?” she asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always to cooldoyouhaveaflag (Ripper Shipper), my beta and enabler of my British TV binge-watches. :-D Also: the chapter title and Sister Monica Joan’s quote are from Luke 2:19, King James Version.


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